


Missed Calligraphy

by ReallyMissCoffee



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hannibal is in love, Healing, Loneliness, M/M, Mature if you squint, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Romance, Will is emotionally constipated, Wistful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 08:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13143237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReallyMissCoffee/pseuds/ReallyMissCoffee
Summary: Physical recovery is often easier than mental recovery. Communication isn't a simple concept when history is stretched as theirs is. The simple act of leaving a note can sometimes say everything that words can't.





	Missed Calligraphy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merrythoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/gifts).



> So this started out solely because I saw a [ prompt](https://hannigramprompts.tumblr.com/post/150727669335/what-if-will-wakes-up-every-morning-to-a-new-typed) from over a year ago that sparked the rest of this. I deviated a little but that's because it became its own thing, and just so happened to be perfect to gift to my current partner in crime and best friend [ Merry](http://merrythought.tumblr.com/) for Christmas. 
> 
> Thanks for an amazing year of complete and total indulgence, and here's to many, many more to come! Enjoy your angst, you wicked creature.

It’s the stab of light coming in from the space between the blinds that wakes Will. It’s perfectly positioned, right over his eyes, as it has been for the last few weeks, but he doesn’t do anything about it. Groggy, slow, he turns onto his other side, limbs heavy, head aching, but now that his eyes have opened once, the concept of being able to close them again seems impossible.

There’s a throbbing ache behind his right eye, one that curls insidiously down through the ear on the same side, bleeding out into his jaw. Will sighs, the heavy, aching sigh of a man used to his lot in life. He lifts his head from his pillow and gingerly lifts a hand to his jaw, callused fingers only touching, not stroking, over the jagged, dark scab interspersed by oversensitive, fresh-pink skin.

His jaw is tender and sore, and though Will’s been warned against touching his tongue to the ragged flesh on the inside of his cheek, he does it anyway. It stings, but that makes sense. He grinds his teeth in the night, sometimes tearing skin away from the healing scar or aggravating the cut to his tongue from Dolarhyde’s knife. In the early morning, when Will has no other external stimulation, the sensation is maddening. Beyond the pounding in his head and the ache to his jaw, he feels as though he has something caught in his mouth, something he needs to gnaw away, but he doesn’t have the muscle strength to manage. So though restless frustration wells up within him, Will eventually sets his head back down on the pillow and breathes.

He’s awake now, sheets tangled about his legs. One sock has come off in the night and his shirt is stretched painfully over his chest. Maybe his wounds are mostly-healed, the skin at least scarred and no longer at risk of splitting, but the scars are still tender.

Will sighs and shifts in his bed, casting a slow look around the room. White walls, the infuriating stripe of sun almost blinding on them, dark hardwood floor, and Spartan everything else. A dresser against the far wall, a pile of books in the corner, a spare set of sheets resting on top of them, a side table, and his bed with its cotton sheets and navy comforter. There are no pictures on the walls, no plants in the room, no ornaments on the table or dresser. The only things that hadn’t been there upon arrival had been the blackout curtains (cheap, which now shows) and the lamp (not cheap, and Will still resents the intricacy of the soft white designs whenever the light is on.)

They’re the same furnishings he’s seen for months. There’s never been a change in routine since their wounds had passed the point of danger. He wakes, he lingers, and eventually the scent of food and coffee draw him mutely out of his chosen cave, and he sits in the company of the man he has to thank for his life.  The man whose life he’d also saved. Will’s frown hurts his jaw and he shifts then, just enough to build up the momentum to rise, when something catches his attention.

On the pillow beside him, folded neatly, is a piece of paper. Will freezes.

The first thought he has is that someone has been in his room, followed immediately by the wry understanding that _Hannibal_ had been in his room. Will stares at the slip of paper in silence. He looks at it the way a mouse would a distant cat, wary, ready to bolt. Eventually Will’s curiosity gets the better of him and he reaches out one hand to gingerly pick it up. It’s not weighted, and it’s not addressed to him on either side. Plain paper, and when he opens the folds, he doesn’t see flowing calligraphy, but instead the clinical block-letters of a printed page.

_Time is a fickle thing, so often overlooked and so quick to pass. We consider it when we must and ignore it when it suits us, and yet it is always there, looming, whispering. It appears as though there will forever be an endless supply, and by the time we realize it, it has fallen like sand between our fingers._

Will is silent. He turns the page over once, then again as if looking for more, but there isn’t any. That’s all that’s written on the page. There’s no name, no signature, no nothing. It’s pointless, and Will feels irritation war with discomfort as he rereads the words and then silently folds the paper. After a moment’s consideration, he tucks it under his pillow because he doesn’t know what else to do with it.

~*~

The smell of coffee pulls Will downstairs as if the scent is a leash around his neck. He dresses in jeans and a baggy sweater that doesn’t rub against the scar on his clavicle, and with heavy, weary steps, he makes his way downstairs. The note is still on his mind, and though he’d initially been disconcerted, now he just feels irritated by ‘flowery bullshit’, as he’d taken to calling it while still upstairs.

Will slows before stepping into the kitchen, as he always does. Despite his annoyance, there is still an emotion that is more overwhelming: uncertainty. What are you supposed to say to the man that single-handedly ruined and saved your life in equal measure? Will doesn’t know, and as of that morning, he hasn’t been able to decide what to do with it. So instead he draws himself inwards, allows himself to settle, and then steps into the kitchen.

Hannibal is already there, seated at the table. Will casts him a quick glance, but outside of the typical reading material (a newspaper today, though some days it’s a book or a journal) and steaming mug of coffee, nothing is different. Hannibal still sits tall despite the fact he’d been shot through the fucking stomach, and he still only glances up to look at Will once in order to politely smile at him before looking back down at the newspaper. It’s familiar, unassuming, and absolutely infuriating.

Will swallows and shuffles his feet, feeling a familiar frustrated energy beginning to spike, but it goes nowhere, as always. Instead he deflates and turns away, walking to get himself a mug (already left on the counter for him so he doesn’t have to reach) and plates himself up something that looks a little like a pie but isn’t. Will forgets the word, but he knows it’s good. It’s all that matters.

He takes it to the table and Hannibal doesn’t spare him another look. It’s been like this for months, ever since Hannibal had turned the proper corner away from ‘certain death’. Up until then, it had been Will cursing by the hour, hands shaking with pain and fumbling with alcohol and antibiotics and sutures, directed by half-fevered mutterings from Hannibal before he’d drifted into unconsciousness. Each time Will had been terrified that it would end, that it would be it. That he’d wake up in the morning all alone, injured, lost, and adrift with Hannibal’s corpse remaining. Yet each time Hannibal had crawled his way back to consciousness in the end to give Will more instruction.

It had been a long, grueling few weeks. In his more delirious moments, Hannibal had slurred fevered apologies and reprimands over how prioritizing his own recovery was ultimately delaying Will’s, but he’d never seemed to remember having mentioned a thing and Will still isn’t brave enough to revisit those moments. He’d been terrified, panicked, fumbling and dark, because had they both died in the Fall, that would have been it. A simple, sweet end in the embrace of oblivion. Alive, the both of them having _survived_ the Fall, his actions had taken on a new meaning entirely. In those few weeks where Hannibal had been clinging to life by a thread, Will had realized just how much he’d had to lose.

He sits and looks at Hannibal’s vague expression. He’s clearly not even that interested in what he’s reading, and the fact that Hannibal’s attention is still on the newspaper grinds through Will like fitful frustration. He shifts and waits, but Hannibal doesn’t look up.

Had those first few weeks not happened, maybe he’d not mind so much, but the aftermath has been agonizing. Hannibal is quiet, leaving him to his own devices. They’ve spoken very little about the events that had transpired. They’ve been careful, their topics controlled, and while Will had initially been relieved, he no longer feels the same way. Frustration and irritation are common bedfellows, and they commonly sleep with resignation and sorrow.

Will is quiet as he sips his coffee and tucks into his food. Hannibal still doesn’t look at him (save for the moments where Will looks away entirely) and it’s another day. It’s another day of the same awkward silence that Hannibal doesn’t appear to find awkward. Any other day, Will might have allowed it, but as he sits there and flavors burst over his tongue, he suddenly feels a little reckless.

“What was that about this morning?”

Hannibal finally looks at him, but his expression is mild. “What was what about?”

“The note. What you left. What was that?”

There’s a brief moment where something twitches behind Hannibal’s eyes. It’s there one moment and gone the next. Then Hannibal simply looks back at the newspaper. “An opportunity,” he says, and doesn’t watch as Will goes quiet across from him.

Will considers this, contemplative, but in the end the words seem to hold a little too much weight for him to know what to do with them. Though it’s maddening, Will uncomfortably lets the matter drop. He returns to his food and Hannibal returns to his reading and they exist in each others’ company.

~*~

There’s another note on his pillow the next morning. Will’s head feels even worse than it had the morning before and as he groggily looks out of the small crack in the curtains, he sees that the world beyond the house is steadily being drenched. Will’s shoulder aches deeply with a barometrically-induced pain and it takes him a long moment to carefully stretch the muscles out as the steady drumming of rain blankets him in a natural white noise.

There’s no sun through the blinds this time and yet Will lays there and breathes slowly through the migraine that’s already threatening to exist. Will’s lips thin in pain and he almost forgets about the note left on his pillow until he squirms to get comfortable and it slides off of the pillow and winds up almost crushed under him. A sharp corner pokes his arm and Will reaches over, groping for it irritably.

He holds it up above his head and opens it, only to realize he can’t make out the words. It means he needs to roll over and turn the lamp on before he can see a damn thing, and by then, his head is pounding and his body is aching.

 _Rain is calming here. A blanket to obscure and nurture as it cleanses. A baptism by the sky for those who believe it’s necessary. The scent of petrichor is sweet. A reminder that regardless of the drought, not even the worst can last forever_. 

Will doesn’t know what to make of it and he’s in too much pain to care. He grimaces and shoves the note under his pillow and spends the next ten minutes trying to rub the headache away as it grows. Eventually the scent of coffee rises from downstairs and Will’s stomach heaves its discomfort. He grimaces and turns away, but in the end, he rises as he always does but doesn’t bother to get dressed the way he should.

He throws on a t-shirt but remains in his shorts and – squinting heavily against the onslaught in his head – Will staggers his way downstairs. He doesn’t even know why at first until he hears the faintest rustling of papers from the kitchen and something relaxes in his shoulders. Will doesn’t think about it as he leans against the doorway and sees Hannibal sitting at the table. Instead of going to sit, he stands there until Hannibal looks up and all it takes is one glance for Hannibal’s lips to tug into a moue.

“Will?”

“Rain,” Will grinds out, and rubs at his face.

He doesn’t see the flicker of something in Hannibal’s eyes, and he doesn’t hear Hannibal stand. It means he almost jumps out of his skin when there’s a cool hand against his forehead, but his shock lasts only a moment before he grimaces.

“Perhaps you ought to lay down,” Hannibal suggests.

“Tried that. Just getting worse.”

“I see.”

Will doesn’t see. In fact _seeing_ is becoming a little difficult now. His head throbs, his neck aches, and his shoulders are a measure of agony. It means that when Hannibal leaves him and then brings something back to press into his hand, he doesn’t argue. Whatever it is, is pill-shaped and Will takes it without question, dry-swallowing it despite the chalky coating. Then, though he does protest being moved, when Hannibal’s hands press him back, Will eventually gets the hint. He closes his eyes and lets himself be guided, though he loses track of where he is until Hannibal brings him to a stop.

Will feels the plush sensation of fur under his feet and he reasons that Hannibal has brought him to the sitting room, where there’s a thick rug made of coarse-but-thick fur. He resists the first little push to his shoulders, but when Hannibal says, “Will,” in the soft, over-reasonable way he’s so good at, Will eventually relents. He opens his eyes enough to see as he sinks to his knees on the floor, and then he lets Hannibal guide him backwards against the white-leather sofa.

His head is too sore to register much, but even then Will doesn’t miss the way cool fingers press to his temples. Will’s lips are thin, his jaw tight.

“Relax,” Hannibal says, and his hands smooth over Will’s temples, then trace the tension down to each side of his jaw. “You’ll work yourself up more if you’re not careful.”

Grunting dismissively, Will bears the pain until Hannibal’s fingers slide over something just under the scar on his jaw. The sudden flare of agony is enough to make Will lurch away from it with a slurred curse, but Hannibal’s hands ease him back. No apology is forthcoming, but Will hadn’t expected one. And when Hannibal reaches down with both thumbs to press into the knots he’d found, Will’s toes curl and he breathes a little quicker, but he doesn’t lurch away this time. The first few seconds are agonizing but the next few are easier to handle. 

In the end, when Hannibal’s fingers slide away from Will’s jaw, it feels looser than it has in months. He makes a sound, a soft groan, and this time when Hannibal’s fingers dip down lower along his neck, Will leans forward enough just to make a little room. He doesn’t flinch away as Hannibal’s thumbs dig into his neck, though he does hiss a few minutes later when knuckles dig into his shoulder-blades.

Hannibal works slowly and Will loses track of time. He muses over yesterday’s note, thinking about time and his grasp on it, and then he lets it go. Somewhere in the time since he’d begun, Hannibal has apparently sat down, and Will doesn’t even realize that he’s leaning against Hannibal’s knee until the fingers along his back come to a final stop.

“How are you feeling?”

Hannibal’s voice is soft enough to be dreamlike, but Will thinks on the question anyway. He takes stock slowly, piecing his body’s responses together. He aches in places but it’s a good ache. Will rolls his shoulders slowly, and when his headache doesn’t spike, he almost sags back against Hannibal in relief. His head isn’t nearly as bad.

“Better. I’m-- much better, thank you.”

“You carry your tension in your shoulders. You could likely do with regular massage.”

The suggestion sounds so normal coming from him that Will almost doesn’t realize that Hannibal is _offering_ until he chances a look back at him and takes note of the prompting expression on his face. Will hesitates, thrown, because this is the most that Hannibal has touched him since he’d been helping Will with his wounds. He’s just startled enough that instead of agreeing immediately, the thought of what he’d just allowed hits him. He suddenly feels self-conscious now that there’s no pain to soothe away, and then he looks away. He leans away from Hannibal’s lingering touch. “Maybe. I’ll let you know.”

He pretends not to notice Hannibal’s disappointment.

~*~

Will’s not surprised to find another note on his pillow the following morning. It’s the contents that surprise him.

_I wasn’t certain you would ever permit me to touch you again._

Will’s breathing catches. It’s direct, not vague the way the others have been. It’s short, and yet this is the one that makes Will lay there in bed for what feels like hours, the note clutched between his thumb and forefinger, eyes never leaving the words.

They feel loaded, like heavy ammunition for a gun he can’t see, and yet Will can feel how lethal they could be in the wrong hands.

He wonders if his count.

~*~

He doesn’t say anything to Hannibal about his third note. He considers it for awhile, but as he goes throughout the day, it never feels like the right time. The direct words feel more intimate. Will doesn’t know how or where to begin. Whenever he thinks about saying something, he winds up looking at Hannibal  - reading at the dining room table, sketching in the parlor, cooking in the evening, tending to a small herb garden before bed – and loses his nerve.

The other messages had been curious, but that one had been more raw, more personal. Will doesn’t know what to do with it, but that night when he retreats to his room and Hannibal walks into his own separate bedroom, Will pulls out the note and rereads it until he’s so groggy that he has to set it aside.

His last thought before falling asleep is wondering what he’ll find beside him in the morning.

~*~

When he wakes in the morning, he doesn’t bother to look at the small crack of light spilling over onto the walls. It’s blinding in the darkness of the room but Will’s focus isn’t on the wall. He turns over and groggily seeks out his pillow. At first he doesn’t see anything and there’s an odd quirk of disappointment that settles deep inside of him. Then he shifts a little more and feels the telltale poke against his arm. Will lifts his arm as much as he can and reaches down, fishing a new note out. He looks at it, quiet, curious, and then unfolds it, turning it towards the light so that he can see it better.

_How must the world look behind your eyes? What must you see when you look around? Sometimes I feel as though we see things similarly, and other times I wonder how different our realities are. Perhaps one day I might know you. Perhaps one day I might see through your eyes and know you as you are._

Will takes over an hour to come downstairs, and when he sneaks a small glance at Hannibal and finds him looking out the picture window, he wonders what _Hannibal_ sees in the expanse of snow on the ground.

~*~

The messages continue.

Hannibal doesn’t mention them, and Will doesn’t bring them up, but they become a staple, something to look forward to every morning. Even when the snow rages outside of their pseudo-cabin (Will maintains that a million-dollar cabin in Switzerland is not, in fact, a _cabin_ ) and he and Hannibal merely watch the snow from the large, nearly floor-to-ceiling windows in the sitting room, Will’s mind drifts to the messages he’s been given.

Each one has had its own meaning, but also its own difficulties.

_There are times I wonder what baptism might mean to one person as opposed to another. A cleansing of spirit, a sanctity of soul. Dipping in the ocean, putting one’s faith in God, trusting Him to save you. I wonder if you might call our Fall a baptism of sorts._

Will had thought on that one all day.

_I put no faith in God._

Will is ashamed to admit that he’d thought on _that_ one even longer.

_There’s longing behind your eyes, though for what I cannot guess. You long for simplicity, for clarity, for answers, and yet seeking them out is daunting._

Yes.

_How far would you go for simplicity? Would you rend yourself apart, peel back your edges and pin yourself wide and on display? Would you settle comfortably at the feet of whatever master you choose simply to relinquish the risk of needing to choose for yourself? I wonder if simplicity is what you ache for, or if the thought of simplicity appeals to you more._

Will doesn’t look at Hannibal that day, and the words burn in the back of his mind. As he sits sat there in the sitting room, with Hannibal jotting small notes down on a journal on his lap, Will stares at him with open resentment before the images bleed into one another. He thinks of Jack Crawford, of sitting at his feet, of barked orders and restrictions.

Then he thinks of falling. Of blood on his hands, of leaning into Hannibal’s chest and breathing in blood-saturated air. He thinks of Hannibal’s reverent touches, of arms wrapped so gingerly around him, of the pounding of Hannibal’s heart and the warmth of his breath.

That night Will feels sick as he squirms fitfully in bed, but when he shoves his hand down his pants and turns over to slide the fabric of the pillowcase between his teeth, his free hand drifts under the opposite pillow and threads through the folded bits of paper left behind. As pleasure crests, it takes all of his self control to resist the urge to grip onto the notes, like they could somehow offer him purchase.

~*~

Days turn into a week, and one week turns into two. The messages don’t stop. He tries once or twice to catch Hannibal in the act, but he never succeeds. Each morning there is a simple note on his pillow, and each morning, Will isn’t sure how it makes him feel.

Will’s focus changes depending on what has been written that morning.

Some days he wakes and spends the day irritated with something Hannibal has suggested, like the day he wakes to the message:

 _Perhaps it’s fear that keeps you from majesty_.

Other days he aches somewhere deep and secret in his chest for more:

_Will you ever truly understand how captivating I find you?_

Will aches the whole day after that one. He thinks about himself, about the differences in the way they might see things, as Hannibal once suggested, and he wonders how Hannibal might see him. He has Bedelia’s words, her implication, and Will knows it’s true, but there’s something rending about reading Hannibal’s own words. He thinks of hearing them, of the touch of Hannibal’s hands along his jaw, massaging away the pain, and Will _aches_ for something that feels wrong to so much as suggest.

But what aches even more is when he walks downstairs that morning, Hannibal spares him the same polite smile and merely asks him whether he’s hungry. There’s no haunting, loaded questions, no lingering glances, no adoration or hate behind his eyes. He’s merely present, careful, and when Will drags himself off to bed that night, he lays in the darkness and stares at the thin strip of stars he can make out past the blinds.

He feels so fucking alone.

~*~

At three weeks, the feeling of loneliness is aching and constant. There are too many messages to safely store under his pillow and so he carefully folds each one and then places them inside the drawer in his bedside table. On the barren walls, Will owns nothing, but in the drawer he keeps everything he wants. The messages feel like Hannibal, like understanding, like _connection_. Each one is typed so clearly, but as the days go on, Will begins to resent how distant the _typed_ notes are.

He knows Hannibal is capable of flowing calligraphy. He knows that he basks in artistry and he remembers the beauty of those messages Hannibal had once sent to him while he’d been incarcerated. Will’s resentment is tinged with a bitterness, something confusing and uncomfortable, and as much as he likes each message he gets, they’re also hard to handle. They’re difficult to manage, because despite how much the subject matter sometimes aches, it’s still Hannibal. It’s only part of him, though. His thoughts, but not his soul.

Worse is that outside of the solitude of Will’s room where the notes wind up so sweetly on his pillow, Hannibal is practically a stranger. They heal slowly, the scabs on Will’s jaw falling off to reveal sensitive pink skin that hurts to touch.  Hannibal’s limp eases as the days go on, and while his expression still pinches in pain when he lifts something too heavy or bends over a certain way, he’s also healing slowly. It’s a success for the both of them, and yet despite the fact that they’re physically falling back into something resembling normalcy; emotionally, sharing space, there’s almost nothing.

They read, Hannibal sketches while Will reads more, Hannibal stays inside while Will goes out to shovel, needing something to work on instead of going insane, but they don’t talk. Any conversation feels stilted and shallow by comparison.

The messages in the morning are Hannibal, and as the days pass, Will begins to realize just how much he’s missed Hannibal. He’d never believed it possible to miss someone while still being near them, but as he watches Hannibal one evening before going out to shovel, Will realizes that he misses the engaging conversations. He misses the challenge, the ache, the pain. He just misses Hannibal.

~*~

_I wonder sometimes how much you resent me. Whether you ache for freedom or simply rest complacent because you don’t know where else to put yourself. Were you to leave, I am not entirely certain whether I would let you go._

It’s the message he gets the last day of the fourth week and it strikes him hard. Had Hannibal said something like this to him even a month ago, he would have pushed back, would have fought. As he lays back in bed and squints against the thin thread of light that spills past his blinds, Will knows with absolute certainty that despite his distress, he doesn’t want to go anywhere.

Where would he go, if not here? Hadn’t this been his choice?

Will doesn’t go downstairs that day, not until noon, and he can’t deny the frustration he feels when Hannibal only looks at him and then rises, suggesting an early lunch.

~*~

_So many have tried to tame you. So many have reached into your heart and attempted to carve it out, to inscribe their names upon it. Would you ever allow another to claim you like that? I think not. Wild and free, Will. That is where you reside._

Somehow, uncomfortably, the message makes him think of goodbye. When he wakes up the next morning to find another one on the pillow, Will’s eyes close and he swallows tightly. The light is spilling over his eyes again but this time Will merely lets it happen. He curls up onto his side, and when he unfolds the note, his hands are almost shaking.

_You walked outside today to shovel the walkway. You bundled yourself in the warmest clothing and yet I could still see you trembling as you worked. I don’t like the cold. I have no affinity for the snow, and yet as you stood there and mopped at your brow, I wanted nothing more than to join you. You make me reconsider myself, Will. You make me question what I know and what I am certain of._

Will swallows and thinks back. He’d shoveled the afternoon before, frustrated at the weight of the snow against his shoulders. He’d been cursing under his breath, slipping every now and then, and he hadn’t noticed Hannibal looking at him.

He turns the note over, as he always does, but this time, there’s something else there. Will stills, and his breathing catches in a sudden, sharp gasp.

 _You are everything_.

He notices the soft, thin lines of ink before he ever notices the words, and Will stares down at the note in silence as he studies the familiar, looping calligraphy.

That morning when Will goes downstairs, he looks at Hannibal and sees nothing. Hannibal looks the same, reading as ever, clean-shaven and posture straight. It’s maddening up until the moment Will draws a quick breath.

“Would you… give me another massage?” He asks, boldly, and he’s stunned to see the look of honest surprise in Hannibal’s eyes as he looks up. “I can feel the tension coming back. I’d rather avoid a migraine if I can,” he lies, and if Hannibal notices, he doesn’t point it out.

Instead he marks his place in his book and closes it. Then he stands. “Of course, Will. If you’ll come with me.”

~*~

_I don’t believe you notice me watching you. I thought once that you must be able to. It feels like a physical thing to me. The intensity carves into my mind so you must be able to sense it, and yet I am beginning to doubt you notice. There is cruelty in it, yet also reassurance. I must not register as a threat._

It’s wide, looping calligraphy, and Will feels something twist sharply in his chest. He feels relief and anguish in equal measure, and another emotion he’s trying not to focus on. Then, with trembling fingers, he turns the note over, and he’s not surprised to see another, small message.

 _It will always be you_.

~*~

 The messages continue. The subtleties begin to bleed away and each morning, there’s a different emotion lying in wait as Will opens each message. There’s expectation and hope and something else. Something he’d hoped once to feel with Molly, but hadn’t been able to. He reads and saves each message, and as the days pass, something feels like it’s beginning to build.

So when Will opens the note that morning and there is only one line there, he’s almost not surprised.

 _I want to kiss you_.

Will knows. He’s never been told, but as he stares at the words and feels something ache sharply in his chest, he feels like he’s always known. It’s not just Hannibal wanting to kiss him. It’s never _just_ been that. Hannibal wants him. Hannibal wants to be with him.

The terrifying thing is that Will is beginning to think Hannibal isn’t alone in that desire.

~*~

He means to say something that morning. He feels like he has a cork in his throat, stopping the words from escaping, but the pressure is there. Will isn’t sure what he’s feeling when he walks downstairs, but somehow Hannibal’s polite smile feels more agonizing today than it ever had before.

Will looks. He searches. He studies Hannibal for _any_ sign that something has changed, but Hannibal is as present as he ever is. He’s polite and muted, pleasantly silent when he cooks, and though he does speak with Will a little more than he normally does, the comments are casual. For Hannibal, they’re practically small-talk, and Will doesn’t know how to handle the swell of emotion burning caustically in his chest. He keeps hoping for an opening, for _something_. The memory of Hannibal’s hands smoothing over his jaw and down his neck, of his fingers working into the aching muscles of Will’s shoulders is a sharp reminder, but even that intimacy feels far away.

As the hours crawl on and Hannibal says nothing, Will is beginning to feel more alone than ever before. How can Hannibal say something like that and then just continue as if nothing has happened? How can he look so firm and solid when Will feels like his foundations have permanently shifted?

The words almost come out numerous times that morning, then more in the afternoon and the evening, but Will never finds the right time. When night rolls in and Hannibal offers a drink to finish the evening, Will looks at him in silence. Then he mutters that he’s feeling tired and he turns, retiring to bed before Hannibal can protest.

~*~

The thin strip of light hits Will in the face the next morning, as it always does, and he just stares at it, as if challenging it to see who will blink first. In the end, it’s him. He squints away from the light with a sigh and slowly stretches out, then – after a moment to build himself up – Will eases onto his side and reaches out with one hand, blindly groping for the pillow beside him.

There’s nothing there.

Will’s eyes snap open immediately and he frowns, sluggishly easing himself up enough to look down at the side of the bed. He’s dizzy with exhaustion but he’s also rapt as he looks down at the sheets, searching for the note Hannibal had to have left, but there’s nothing on his sheets or under him. There’s nothing on the pillow, and when Will leans over the side of the bed, there’s nothing there either. Confusion and alarm war with each other and Will remains quiet for a long few moments.

Then he staggers onto his feet, throws on a t-shirt, and he almost trips on his way down the stairs. There’s a lingering fear in his mind, something cold lodged deep in his chest. If Hannibal hasn’t written, is he all right? Or, worse, is he _gone?_

Will almost hits the doorframe of the kitchen, he turns the corner sharply, fearful, but there are no words that can properly describe the level of relief he feels when he finds Hannibal sitting at the table, a book open in his hand. Even Hannibal seems startled, for he looks up at Will in mild surprise. Just for a flicker of a second, Will thinks he sees something guarded there, something uncertain, but he’s so fucking relieved that Hannibal is _here_ that it’s hard to handle.

He swallows. “I had- I had a dream, sorry. I don’t… I’ll go get dressed,” Will stammers awkwardly, and there’s a mild waver to his voice that he tries to cover.

He’s already turning around when Hannibal’s voice calls him back. It’s a soft, “Will,” as the book open on the table closes, and Will doesn’t have to look to know that Hannibal is standing up. He can feel the shuffle of movement, can feel the sudden presence in his space, and Will draws in an uncertain breath that he then lets out slowly. He stands there, unmoving, until Hannibal reaches out. The touch to his shoulder is almost too careful, and Will lets himself be turned back to face Hannibal.

There’s concern in Hannibal’s eyes, though it’s muted, and Will swallows something thick and ugly back down.

“Are you all right?”

Will nods jerkily, but the hitch to his breathing rats him out. Hannibal’s hand slides from his shoulder up to his jaw and the touch is so fucking familiar that Will turns his head, pressing into it without thinking. He closes his eyes and wonders – for a hysterical second – if Hannibal is going to kiss him.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for that.”

Will glances up as far as Hannibal’s chin and he opens his mouth to protest, but Hannibal gently eases him back and then nods towards the sitting room.

“Go sit down. I’ll bring you something to eat. Take the blanket off of the back of the couch and I’ll join you momentarily.”

Will looks at him, almost confused, but the direction helps. He nods and turns around, albeit reluctantly, and he makes his way into the sitting room with the over-white furniture and the floor-to-ceiling picture windows. There’s a chill in the room and when Will sits on the sofa, he immediately draws his legs up and drags the blanket off of the back of the couch. He sits and watches, waiting, and when Hannibal comes to him, it’s with a mug of coffee and a quick but simple hot breakfast on a plate.

Will watches as he pulls up a table and sets the plate and mug down. He’s quiet, staring, and when Hannibal gestures to the plate and tells him to eat once more, Will mechanically reaches for the fork as Hannibal steps away. He watches quietly as Hannibal walks to the fireplace and crouches down in front of it. He’s quick as he builds a fire up and then closes the gate so as to not allow any wood smoke through into the room.

Just the sight of the fire is enough to calm Will down a little more, but he still feels awkward and on edge until Hannibal walks back to him, seems to consider him, and then takes a seat not across the room, but beside him. Will’s just stunned enough that he forgets to eat, but Hannibal’s firm insistence is all the reminder that he needs.

They lapse into silence as Will eats, and bit by aching bit, the mixture of food, coffee, and warmth wind their way around him, all the way through to his core. He breathes slowly and deeply and by the time Hannibal speaks again, he’s feeling less like he’s going to shake apart.

“Is this something you wish to talk about?”

Will almost wants to laugh. What could he say? That he’d briefly assumed Hannibal had gotten fed up and had just fucked off? Not likely. But somehow not saying anything seems impossible. More than anything, though, Will can’t shake the realization that for once Hannibal is actually _talking_ to him.

“I don’t know,” Will says unsteadily. “I thought… it was more a waking dream. Nightmare. Sort of.”

“Does this happen often?”

Will shakes his head. “Used to. Not anymore. This one was… different. Can we not talk about this?” He adds, and he glances away to avoid Hannibal’s disappointment, choosing instead to hide his awkwardness in each bite of breakfast.

The urge to ask Hannibal why he’d stopped is almost overwhelming, but just like the day before, Will finds he can’t really get the words out. They feel trapped in his throat and in his chest, the pressure building again. This time, though, instead of merely sitting out the rest of the day like this, something finally eases within him and he draws in a slow, awkward breath.

“Actually, um. Could you get something for me?”

Hannibal’s expression is unreadable, but he still nods. “Of course.”

“My uh… my side-table. Just one of the things in there and a pen?”

There’s a flicker of something in Hannibal’s eyes, but he still acquiesces. Rising with a smoothness that should be impossible for someone recovering from injuries like his, Hannibal makes his way out of the room. Will remains, quiet, wondering if he’s completely fucked this up.

~*~

Hannibal doesn’t return until Will’s food is gone. Will's nursing the coffee when he finally hears muted footsteps on the stairs. Will glances up just in time to see Hannibal turn the corner, and there’s a guarded, unreadable expression on his face as he looks at Will. He’s silent, and for a moment Will only stares at him. Then, with a small clearing of his throat, Will extends a hand and lifts an eyebrow.

Hannibal walks back to him and sets a single folded piece of paper down in front of him, then wordlessly sets a pen down beside it.

Will doesn’t look at him. He can’t. It had seemed like a good idea at the time but now he’s realizing how ridiculous it had been. The panic is less now, but the rest of it isn’t. The ache is still there, the loneliness, the longing, and so he reaches a hand over for the pen as he sets his coffee down, then slides the paper closer.

He looks, glancing down at the note that Hannibal had selected, and Will’s expression pinches slightly as he rereads the words.

_There’s longing behind your eyes, though for what I cannot guess. You long for simplicity, for clarity, for answers, and yet seeking them out is daunting._

He remembers in that moment just how much he’d ached to read those words, and now that he finds them again, he realizes how true they really are. Now he understands, though. It’s not simplicity. Will wonders if it ever was.

He darts a single look at Hannibal and then turns the note, smoothing it open. He takes the pen and presses it to paper and Will’s throat bobs as he writes something back. His own handwriting is rough, standing out sharply against the typed block-letters. He’s not a calligrapher. His hand is unsteady, a little shaky, and his heart is beating wildly.

Will still finishes. When he’s done, he sets the pen down, draws in a breath, and then wordlessly holds the note out to Hannibal, who takes it with an unreadable expression.

_I miss you. I miss you talking to me like this. You didn’t write this morning, and when you didn’t, I thought you were gone._

And then, under even that, much smaller:

_And from yesterday - I want you to._

Will can tell the moment that Hannibal understands. There’s a slight hitch to his breath and Hannibal’s eyes don’t leave the page. For a second, neither of them move. Then, finally, Hannibal closes the note and delicately folds it. There’s a beat of a breath and when Hannibal looks down at Will next, there’s something almost pained in his eyes. He sits, reclining in the seat, and Will notices that Hannibal’s hand hasn’t released the note.

“I had hoped to give you time.”

“Too much time.” Will swallows. “It was… it was like I got snippets of you. I looked forward to the mornings because it was you again. You were being real. Then I’d go downstairs and…”

“I was attempting to avoid pressuring you.” Hannibal’s fingers shift, and Will watches his thumb stroke the back of the paper. “What you’ve been through-“

“Both of us. Not just me.”

Hannibal hesitates. “Yes. What we’ve both been through… it felt unwise to assume. I believed you might respond better to speech without expectation.”

“At first I did. At first it was nice, not needing to think up a response. To just have it and not have to play the game.”

“But?”

Will wets his lips. “But eventually the differences got to be so much. You were _you_ on paper, and then downstairs you were like a shell. Closed off.”

“And this bothered you.”

“Not at first. Then yeah… yeah, a lot. I don’t want that anymore. I want this.” Will reaches over to touch the note and chances a look up. He’s not surprised to see a cautious warmth in Hannibal’s eyes, but he _is_ surprised by his own reaction to it. Will feels something like a lurch behind his breastbone. “I want you to talk to me again. To… to spew your fucking existential bullshit even when it pisses me off. I want you to touch me again.”

Will knows he isn’t imagining the flicker of something in Hannibal’s eyes.

“My final note,” Hannibal says quietly, almost prompting.

Will nods. “Yeah. Like I wrote, I want that too.”

Will is certain that – up until that point – he’s never seen Hannibal look so affected. The only moment that comes close is the one they’d shared that night on the bluff, with Hannibal’s eyes lidded and rapturous, breathless with adrenaline and pain.

There’s no blood between them now. Will’s jaw still aches and the both of them are hardly fully healed, but the look on Hannibal’s face is perhaps more stricken now than ever. He sets the note aside and then reaches out, and before he can hesitate, Will shifts enough to face him.

The touch of Hannibal’s fingers to his cheek should be wrong. They should make him hiss, should make him recoil, but they don’t. Instead it feels like connection, like a promise, and Will realizes in that moment just how much he’s missed _connection_. A visceral shudder slides through him and he doesn’t fool himself into thinking that Hannibal hadn’t felt it. If anything, Hannibal looks more wrecked than Will does.

“I wasn’t certain you were still reading them,” he admits quietly, almost reverently, “or if the last one had pushed too far. You were withdrawn yesterday.”

“I couldn’t think of what to say. I kept trying to say something, but you just… weren’t _you_.”

“And you’ve missed me. As I was. As I am,” Hannibal clarifies. And, when Will nods, it’s Hannibal’s turn to swallow.

“May I?”

In answer, Will sneaks a hand out through the part in the blankets and he curls his fingers in the soft fabric of the black button-up that Hannibal is wearing. As with everything in his life, there is no forethought. It is only impulse. Will pulls before he can change his mind, and while there’s no fumbling awkwardness, while Hannibal doesn’t just fall atop him, it’s still sudden enough to surprise them both.

The first thing in Will’s mind is that Hannibal’s lips are soft. He hadn’t expected that. There’s a rough scratch of stubble that Hannibal hadn’t shaved that morning, and Will feels it better when he reaches a hand up to touch Hannibal’s cheek. He can feel scars from years ago and he’s surprised that Hannibal’s skin is as warm as it is. But most of all, the most noticeable thing in this moment is the soft sound that Hannibal makes, something small and would-be-wounded as he kisses Will back.

There’s no thunder or crash of lightning, no tectonic shifting. Not in reality, not in Will’s mind. No, it’s much more powerful than that. In that moment, with Hannibal’s lips against his own, feeling the connection, feeling _close_ for the first time in what feels like forever, Will feels hope. He feels peace.

He feels like everything is going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr](https://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/) if ever you wanna drop a line!


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